


The "Click" Habit

by A_chaotic_person



Series: The Paparazzi Thing [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Gen, Mentioned Flash Thompson, Peter Parker is a Mess, also yes this is pre MJ/Peter, cam jansen references, like most everything i'll write, this one is kinda crack too but theyre gonna get more serious possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-26 09:23:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_chaotic_person/pseuds/A_chaotic_person
Summary: “Oh my god.”Peter turned to MJ; camera still pressed to his eye. “What?”“You’re Cam Jansen. Incredible.”-----Not necessary to read previous part to the series, but you definitely will have more fun reading this one if you do go back and read it.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: The Paparazzi Thing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535363
Comments: 12
Kudos: 432





	The "Click" Habit

_Technically_, it was all Daredevil’s fault.

Okay, no it wasn’t, it was definitely Peter’s fault, but that didn’t mean he wanted to admit it.

No, not the—not the thousands of followers begging for more pictures of Mr. “loves his bots just the right amount” Stark and Peter’s adorable younger sister, who kind of actually looks like Stark’s kid, hold up—

Peter was more than willing to take credit for those, and even though he’d decided having a famous Instagram account was kind of like having another secret identity, they were _his_ pictures and he was proud of them.

Nah, Peter just didn’t want to take responsibility for his own dumb habit of saying “click” _out_ _loud_ whenever he took a picture.

* * *

Peter had started taking a camera out as Spider-Man (Spider-Manning? Could he use that word?)—not his nice one, now a prized possession that he refused to allow harm to come to—figuring that it couldn’t hurt to have some evidence to leave behind with his little notes to the cops. He’d struggled to figure out how he could reasonably get such evidence to police without outing himself before he realized he could just get a polaroid that printed pictures instantaneously.

Peter managed to avoid being tossed into dumpsters while out, usually hitting harder, less kind—though equally dirty—surfaces instead. He did, however, often have an excellent view of various dumpsters from his favorite perches.

One such night, the view was _particularly_ good—namely, Clint and Daredevil chilling amongst cardboard and discarded bags of clothes, too exhausted to bother leaving the dumpster. There were worse dumpsters to land in, for sure, but it was so incredibly _funny_. Their positions made it clear this was a regular occurrence, and they conversed easily; resigned to their dumpster-destiny.

In hindsight, Peter could’ve asked Karen to use the cameras in his eye-lenses to take the picture, but he was trying to avoid that, lest Mr. Stark notice the baby monitor was disabled, the cameras only on when Peter was fighting or getting ready to fight. No need to be watched when he was just resting, after all—thanks, Ned.

Instead, grin visible, mask pulled up to his nose, Peter leaned a little closer, tucking himself in the space where two of the alley walls met. The Polaroid was lifted to his eye, and he twisted the lens to adjust the way the dark figures would come out.

_Click_.

“Was that a camera?”

Shit, right. Daredevil was like, super good at hearing things.

(Peter ignored the fact that this meant Double D definitely knew he was there the whole time.)

Clint didn’t respond.

Daredevil slapped him a few times. “Put your damn hearing aids back in.”

Clint slapped him back. “I don’t know what you just said and I don’t care. This is the nicest dumpster I’ve been thrown into all week and I sure as hell am gonna get some sleep in it.”

A sigh. “Spider-Man, stop taking pictures of people while they’re peacefully sleeping in the trash.”

Peter crept down the wall a bit, then gave up and suspended himself above the two. “All I said was “click!” I’m not taking pictures!”

“You’re literally holding a camera.”

“You can’t prove anything!”

Daredevil slapped Clint some more. “Wake up, I need someone less blind to help me persecute Spider-Man for invasion of privacy.”

That was the start of the click habit _and_ the blackmail drawer.

(Peter actually really liked Daredevil and didn’t intend to blackmail him. He’d taken Peter to this old boxing ring and taught him to not get himself killed in his early days, and to deal with his senses when they’d overwhelmed him the first time.

He’d let Peter come back, just after the blip, and fought him in complete, soothing darkness when he’d had a panic attack and was filled with that shaky, shaky adrenaline that set his spider-senses off on every little thing. Peter probably only really knew what that sense was trying to warn him of thanks to those nights.)

* * *

MJ was _thrilled_ to discover the click habit.

She stood with him on the edge of the bleachers during an early October football game. He had his nice camera; she had a notebook. She wasn’t even part of the school newspaper. There was no reason for her to stand there, with him and Betty from the announcements crew, pretending to be covering a frankly boring game.

“You know,” she muttered in a lull in the sound of people, instruments, helmets clacking against each other. “This sport is really dumb.”

“Yeah.” he blinked. “I always wanted to play, though.”

“Loser.”

“I don’t know, guys.” Betty was focused on the marching band, seated in their designated section of bleachers until the half-time show. “There’s redeeming qualities.”

Peter followed her line of sight and noticed Ned beginning to play. The band went through a rousing rendition of ‘We Will Rock You,’ and the Midtown bleachers went wild.

Peter laughed and focused his camera on his bro, Ned’s cheeks straining against the hard set he had them in to play his saxophone. “Click.”

“What?” MJ turned to him. He paid her no attention, now focused on the field—he had to pretend to support the few sports kids at their school in their athletic endeavors.

“Click,” he said again, repeating it once more to get a cleaner shot of the players.

“Oh my god.”

Peter turned to her; camera still pressed to his eye. “What?”

“You’re Cam Jansen. Incredible.”

“You read Cam Jansen?”

“They were mystery books, weren’t they? I have good taste in everything.” She eyed him oddly and turned away, pulling her jacket a little closer. “Well, good taste in literature, anyways.”

“What does that mea—wait. How am I Cam Jansen? I don’t have photographic memory.”

“Did you—not know you say ‘click’ out loud when you take pictures?”

“I _what_?”

“Aunt May, this is terrible.”

“I think it’s pretty funny.”

He lifted his arm from where it was dramatically thrown across his face to squint at her. “Aunt Maaaaaaay, come on.”

“Okay, okay, you’re right, it’s _hilarious_.”

“UGH.”

* * *

“Yo, Parker, you make the sound the camera makes when you take pictures? What the fuck? You’re even more of a loser than I thought—ow!”

MJ raised a single eyebrow at Flash.

“Mr. Harrington! Michelle just _smacked_ me with her- stop that!”

“Eugene,” MJ said, smacking him with her book of the day. “You shouldn’t try to tell a teacher that you needed to be set straight in the middle of Decathlon.”

Flash, a jerk, but not entirely without taste, said, “But I’m _already_ _straight_!”

It looked like MJ was going to smack him again, and Flash visibly braced himself, but then she paused. “That was valid, but you’re on thin fucking ice.” She retook her position at the podium in the room and turned to everyone else. She shuffled the flashcards she held and called everyone’s attention to a speed round.

“Click,” Peter whispered from the last desk in the row, in awe of the image she created, directing his more-or-less willing teammates. He flicked back through his camera, blessed by the still of Flash, stupefied with MJ’s book smashed to the side of his face, MJ herself entirely unfazed.

(The first picture, the one that had caused Flash to laugh at him in the first place, was of Mr. Harrington in a rare moment of mostly anxiety-free happiness—Mr. Dell had just walked in to discuss the upcoming summer Europe Trip.)

It was a soft moment, and Peter _loved_ it.

Morgan, deciding to be the videographer to Peter’s photographer, had ordered everyone in her house to take part in her movie.

She put Mr. Stark, Rhodey, and Happy in the kitchen, Rhodey sitting at the table and Happy and Mr. Stark standing around, looking a little awkward but able to see the living room from their vantage. Businesslike, she informed them they had to “be people for this.”

Peter was told to stand just outside the door to the living room and to wait for the cue to come in.

“You’re allowed to be a photographer, if you want,” Morgan whispered, glancing over her shoulder as though someone might get mad at her for saying that.

She’d positioned Pepper on the couch, Aunt May beside her. They’d been given no instructions.

Morgan, tongue between her teeth set the video camera (much more high-tech than the one Peter remembered Ben taping him with as a kid) artfully on the mantle.

“Places, everyone!” The holler was unnecessary, but everyone shifted around to make it seem like they were following orders.

Morgan forcefully pressed a button on the device and ran up the stairs. “Three… Two… One… Action!”

There was chatter in the kitchen, Morgan having told everyone what to do but not giving anyone a script—well, _Peter_ hadn’t gotten a script, and he thought it would be kind of unfair if everyone else had received one.

Peter heard the telltale _thunk_ of Morgan skipping the bottom step and hopping right to the floor. That was his cue.

He quietly entered the room and it was… really cute. Peter’s chest fluttered and his cheeks warmed and stretched with his smile. His Aunt May, who he’d loved forever, with his new younger sister snuggled in between her and Pepper, another calming presence. Rhodey, who was level-headed, just over the shoulders of everyone, Happy, someone who… Aunt May cared about, and only grumbled about Peter minimally. And Mr. Stark, leaning over the edge of the couch and smirking at Morgan, who was, uh, definitely a person to Peter. Yep, Mr. Stark sure was a person, possibly even one important to him.

_They need to be protected forever_, Peter thought, which was a little ridiculous because things were _okay_, now, and everyone in the room, barring Morgan, had fought battles to protect other people.

Despite the video camera capturing everything already, Peter knelt down, and, still staying in character (even though he hadn’t been given a character), snapped a picture of the scene. “Click.”

* * *

“Click.”

“Peter, stop taking pictures of my cat.”

“Murph deserves it one hundred percent, Mr. Delmar.”

“Click,” Spider-Man snickered. Someone might scold him for it later, but he found it hilarious that he could get a picture of the truck he almost smashed into and still get away fully intact. The driver was captured giving him the middle finger.

Better not show that one to Aunt May, on second thought.

“Click,” he said, taking a shot of Abe, flabbergasted after Flash’s correct answer in AcaDec.

“Click,” he beamed, a picture of Karen and Friday’s code together now forever on the memory card.

“Click!” he screeched even as he ran from the newly uncovered drug ring hot on his tail.

“Click click, sir,” he muttered in the sarcastic tone one might use to say “okay, boomer.”

“Click!”

“Click.”

“Click- huh? Hm. I don’t think I was supposed to get a picture of that.”

“Peter?” said Mr. America (“please just call me Steve”), flushed and still pressed to the wall by the Winter Soldier’s metal arm. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky turned and stared at him, a dead look in his eyes.

“I’m just gonna—go?” Peter fumbled with his camera and stumbled over his pant legs in his haste. “I’ll—delete—yeah, uh, bye!”

He did _not_ delete it, actually. He'd lost too many braincells at this point to make a decision as smart as that.

Now he _really_ needed to make sure nobody found his blackmail drawer.

**Author's Note:**

> the last one was supposed to be on its own but I got a p good response so???? tis a series now. It'll have two more parts after this, one finally about the blackmail drawer and the last one will be the most serious (but not that serious, dw), probably partially taking place after ffh. Lemme know how I did!


End file.
